The Doctor in Room 705
by daisherz365
Summary: All the nurses and aids at St. Bart's Psychiatric Ward have talked and speculated how the woman in 705 got there. It becomes even more speculative closer to the year mark of said woman's admittance that a certain man makes he's reappearance and begins visiting. She must be special they conclude as they watch the coming and going of the only consulting detective; Sherlock Holmes.
1. Chapter 1

**The Doctor in Room 705**

**Part **_**One**_** / of Three**

_Before you read this you should know, this is by far the most personal piece of writing I have ever done. Just keep that in mind as you read this (if you read this). It's kinda odd knowing how close certain bit of this is close to my mind (not to mention frightening). I'd say more about how difficult this makes me posting this. I do hope you like it at least. _

**Synopsis: All the nurses and aids at St. Bart's Psychiatric Ward have talked and speculated how the woman in 705 got there. It becomes even more speculative closer to the year mark of said woman's admittance that a certain man makes he's reappearance and begins visiting. She must be special they conclude as they watch the coming and going of the only consulting detective; Sherlock Holmes. She is that if not a bit more than damaged.**

Molly Hooper wasn't waiting for any one person to visit her. She had long since stopped feeling as if she really needed anyone to help her. If she could recall the two instances that landed her in this padded room, she would merely delete them. She isn't ashamed of her actions nor does she regret it.

It's in her file. Everything is in that small Manila folder that the neurologists and the psychoanalysts carry. She even has an appointed therapist who she is supposed to discuss the deeper matters of her mind. It doesn't mean that she does. She has never left the four plush walls of 705 since the day she was escorted into it by two men.

She thought it was because she was labeled fragile - physically and mentally speaking that they didn't shove her in there. They only guided her in there with her arms wrapped uncomfortably within the confined straps of the yellowish white straight jacket. She has found comfort in the isolation and the odd twists of her upper limbs being constricted in a form of containment.

It's supposed to be for her own good. So that she won't harm herself - or others. She would have smiled ruefully at them after the incidents, now she just sits there in the corner where she knows the camera over the door has a pretty good vantage point of all of her.

Her knees are slightly drawn up to her body and she is leaning against the crevice of the corner. Eyes closed. She isn't sleeping, just there. She knows what will be there if she opens them. Open space where she can walk and roam for so long before she is supposed to start dwelling on what is wrong with her.

She did that for three days in the beginning and then she turned off. She's no machine - she's no robot but she had driven her own self to the edge and this is where she stayed, idle.

Thinking does nothing for her. At times she's reminded of someone fleetingly but she never let's her thoughts stay on him. She'll find a way to bring the nurses in and get them to inject her or shove that god forsake pill down her throat until she clocks out again. She would rather not be awake than be reminded of any of the things before she got herself in here.

It's painful…

She won't say it aloud. She won't speak to anyone. She just sits there with a blank look on her face. She is breathing and most would think that would be enough. It's not.

Sometimes she wishes she could feel a spark of adrenaline. Something that could give her a jolt of life but it isn't a possibility. She had decided that a great length of time ago.

It's only on the day that she is sweating out a fever and actually lying flat on the plush surface with her face planted into it does there seem to be any sign that she isn't entirely gone. He's sitting in the center of the room. She doesn't blink. She rolls over so that she is faced in the opposite direction. She just closes her eyes.

She's hallucinating, she concludes.

She isn't sure if a day has passed or if it's the way she is actually feeling that makes it feel that way when she resurfaces again.

A long time ago she mapped out this room. If there was even a small alteration to it she could tell. She could tell two things:

1) There was an IV drip in her right hand. A doctor had been in there recently to assess her condition. They had slipped one of her arms out of the confining jacket. It would go back in soon, she was positive.

2) He was still there. Staring at her.

Molly could go a great deal of time without acknowledging the existence of any person that entered her safety net. That's what you deemed this room. She was comfortable here. She was content.

Sherlock Holmes had disrupted the flow of comfort. He was someone she had blatantly disconnected herself from. There were reasons of course. None that she would bring herself to think about. She could just shut down again. She can rest for a few more days. It wasn't a problem.

There was something her therapist had told her during the third week of silence that suddenly peaked at the forefront of her mind. It was foggy but she remembered it in broken pieces. "Confrontation is the only way you can move past the problem. Leaving things unresolved won't get you by or out of here."

Molly did something that could be seen as an accomplishment. She said something. "Go."

Sherlock doesn't budge apart from the movement of his lips curving slightly.


	2. Chapter 2

**The Doctor in Room 705**

_Before you continue to read or if this is just your first time reading this (who am I to know) I just really feel the need to thank all of you for reading this because honestly I'm not sure if I could have gotten this out if you hadn't expressed so much support for me with this. As I said in the previous chapter this is probably the most honest and personal story I've ever written in my life. Believe this may be also the most challenging as well. So thank you for that and all your kindness has made me cry for an entirely different reason. You've brought me joy for a moment and I owe you for that. I hope you at least can read this what that in mind. I hope to maybe hear from a few of you soon. Thank you. - Day_

**Part **_**Two**_** / of Three**

_Falling…_

That is what she is reminded of every time he is there when she opens her eyes. It wasn't his fall. No, his wasn't nearly as important as her own. She doesn't regret thinking that. She has thought worse things. She has done worse. She knows it's a lie.

It's almost like when you were a child and you cried over a simple injection that would help you fight off the bad viruses and diseases throughout the year. Except, now you enjoyed the feel of the medicine coursing through your bloodstream. It would help you. That part wasn't just something you were told so that you wouldn't fuss anymore. It helped you forget. Forget about all the things that had happened and all the things you fought to delete from your brain.

He won't let you forget. His presence has a purpose and though he hasn't said anything to you directly, you know him. There is always a reason why he does the things he does. As this is one of the things that you share with this handsome god of a man.

It didn't occur until the ninth time that he is sitting there in front of her that he should want to say something. He has never not said something, especially if he has an opinion about something (this is always, she knows). He has never not spoken his opinion of something.

It used to be so easy for her to tell when something was troubling him. He wore a mask around everyone, only letting it drop when he thought no one of importance was looking - her in other words. Sitting in this plush setting where she's found comfort in the loneliness with him here feels strange. It feels wrong.

She doesn't need him. She doesn't want him here. It's so easy for him to come back and surround her again as if he didn't possibly know what kind of person she had become with his absence of almost four years.

"It's pointless for you to keep visiting me. It's not supposed to be allowed." That last bit was something she had thought about more recently. It wasn't something she planned to say. She never planned to speak at all. Or acknowledge Sherlock Holmes at all.

She was starting to feel a confliction with his presence. It was a horrible mixture of appreciation and loathing that was bubbling under her mask of blankness. She was feeling. She hadn't felt anything in a very long time. She was always idle, a woman who had gone mad in the opinion of others who didn't really matter though they thought they did.

She was okay in her own mind. She was okay with not being just that.

Something had resurfaced again and it was taking all of her strength not to yell at him when he graced her with his presence.

"I am not just anyone, Doctor Hooper. You of all people should know that." If she was the woman she had been before all of everything happened, she would have probably flinched or gave any sort of verbal acknowledgement of just how close to her the detective he sudden was.

Instead, she just opened her eyes and stared at him. Blinking.

He looked different. His clothes were very odd in the retrospect that the last time she saw him in anything like this he had been dead. She glanced to the side of him due to the burn of the memory singe-ing her. He had a pair of sweats that seemed to be tailored to his lanky form and a grey cotton t-shirt (blue the last time) along with a black hoodie that lay on his shoulders unzipped. His feet were bare as were hers. It was more of a preference for her, she was trying to remember something simplistic from before the madness but it was becoming harder for her to string the things she forced to the depths of her mind.

He was sitting directly in front of her (give or take a foot or two). He could reach out and touch her if that's what he wanted. It wasn't something she could say she could avoid if he decided to. She was still confined from the waist up. Though her legs were fully capable of doing plenty of harm.

An aid learned that the first week she was here. That's when it was decided that more than one was needed to make sure that never happened again. This made her a bit more cautious of anyone coming in this room. Especially someone whom could know more than she needed anyone to know about the what or why she was there.

Despite outward thoughts from many of the workers here she wasn't put in here forcibly (as stated before), she asked to be. That should be the most significant piece of the equation. However that was just a tiny side of it. There was much more.

Molly didn't really expect much to happen for the rest of the visit. She didn't really want to talk anymore. Not to him specifically. Not to anyone.

She was about to tip back into the state she stayed in for the first few months. She didn't need nor want him to see that. She needed him to leave as soon as possible.

He was her _**trigger**_.

He didn't know it but it was the truth. This all started with him. Him and that bloody secret. He had told her it wasn't her burden to bear, he had told her that though it was better if she never spoke of it again he would understand however it would cost three lives - four if he included himself and that wasn't something Molly could handle.

She kept her silent word and that had what lead to the domino effect that was her crumbling until she became something much more darker than anyone figured she could ever become. She had started to drift and that gave way to the actions that led her to the darkness then to her safety net.

She looked at him now and her head was filled with several mixes of statements, lies and questions. Things she had felt, questions she yearned to know the answers to and so much pain. She didn't know if she could handle the suffocation that he brought with him.

She just sat there in her corner willing for him to leave her alone for days, months and maybe years. She didn't want to feel like this. She also felt the rage that she felt during the months when she realized how important her role outside of the plan had become. She didn't everbecome see it coming.

She hadn't ever counted that much. He was wrong. He was fucking wrong about everything. He had spoken a lie, one of many he had spilt out to her several times before. It was so much easier for him. She wasn't as strong as him.

She was an easy pick.

She wanted to scream at him until they plunged that damn syringe in her neck and she didn't have to do this for a little while.

She could have easily caved into him and admitted just how much she missed him (she really did), and how much it has killed her to be the only one to harbor the burden for so long. She can't bring herself to just let it go. Letting go is another defeat in itself. She still feels the pain, and it hurts.

It hurts so much.

Within the next three minutes a few things happen. First, Molly throws the first punch (or kick in this case) and then another which results in the second event where Sherlock grimaces as he ultimately is forced to hold her down with his whole body basically pinning her down. A straddle which isn't as comfortable as one would think. His hands are tight on her shoulders and he is pressed on her as he looks at her as if she's foreign to him.

Molly almost finds him to be a bit startled at her acts of violent against him. Then his steely gaze is back to the forefront of his face and he is telling her to stop (_"Molly, for fucks sake hold yourself together." "Stop it."_) over and over again as she is screaming at the top of her lungs how much she despises him (_"I hate you."_) she tells him as she is trembling and thrashing under him. There are unshed tears in her eyes. She won't let him see her that way. There is no way in hell she'll ever let him see her completely crumble. No matter how much she feels it would help him really see how damaged she is. How broken she has become...

The pinnacle happens the quickest as four men in white clamber into the padded room of 705 and pull Sherlock off of their patient and get ready to administer the dose of the drug that Molly has come to love. She's gonna come down soon.

Before she does a loud laugh escapes her lips as Sherlock is fighting against the two men. She shouts at him as she starts to cry not because she is broken but because this feels her with sick joy to see him so troubled by her no less.

"I've gone mad! HA HA I've gone absolutely mad..." She says the last bit quietly as she grows exhausted. Sherlock is there still. She hears him just as she's drifting into unconsciousness.

"No. You're just trapped inside your own mind. It happens..." There may be something else but she doesn't hear any of it because she's shut down.

Sherlock let's the two men lead his way out. That was not what he hoped. Not what he had planned. There was always a way around these things. He just had to find it. He promised, he would.


	3. Chapter 3

**The Doctor in Room 705**

_One last bit of thanks to everyone who has embraced this rather small but intense journey with me over the past couple weeks. I thank you for every follow, favorite and word of encouragement you may have sent my way to help push me to get to this point. _

_I figured since you bit the bullet and took the time to read this it was only fair that I let you in to my struggle a bit. I suffer from very intense waves of depression (not everyone's depression is the same) and at a time it had gotten to a point where I almost gave up and committed suicide. It's not something I'm proud of or happy about but I felt very low and very far away from everything (isolated, lost, alone). No one could really help me. I talked to three of my closest friends that night just because I felt like though they might not understand any of the things that were running rampant through my mind (nor could I even explain it beyond "I want to die and it feels like there is a large weight hovering over my chest") that I needed to reach out. I did, and one of them really went far to make sure I didn't go through with it. She continued to message me all the way from Michigan (I live in Texas) until she was sure that I wouldn't be leaving her for good. She's someone that I met almost two years ago and we have seen each other at our worst now and it is still a great help to have her in my life. She was my savior in my darkness. _

_To clear a few things up that may be speculated since I'm telling you all of this; I don't cut nor have I ever done so. I had another plan for my demise but I'd rather not go into that for I don't enjoy going backwards and slipping back into that mindset. It's a bit easier to do, I admit. _

_This story has become a bit of my way of continuing on without dwelling on a lot of the things that cross my mind. As it's rather short in chapters I am considering doing a second part of it a little later on if anyone is willing to read more of it. It'll most likely surround therapy and recovery (both of which I have yet to really touch base on myself. I am recovering but I have yet to seek help because I don't know how to bring it up in conversation). I would benefit from writing it – I think. But yes, thank you all so much for sticking here besides me while I trudged through my own pain to express it here. I can never fully tell you how grateful I am to all of you for that. I hope you enjoy this in some way. - Day_

**Part **_**Three**_** / of Three**

_The incident…_

That's what she called it in secret and how it was referred many times over by the whispering aids and therapists who milled around the door of the room. Sometimes they would try to get her to budge by mentioning it in front of her as they brought her food, or water and especially when they thought she was so far gone as they administered the pill (or needle) of the beautiful poison that did give her release. They were all fools.

Molly Hooper was perfectly able despite the set of her appearance – uncombed hair, arms folded inside of a yellowish white jacket that had several straps, crunchy scrub pants that were just as white as the masks that they wore as they came in as if she would give them something. Yes, they were all very moronic. She would just sit there (or lay) as they came about to do whatever that wanted and then they would leave.

They always left eventually.

Just like him.

She stops herself from reminding herself that she had been the one that made it seem like he had been hurting her all those days ago when he was here. He probably wasn't allowed anywhere near her. If anything he could spy into the small window that she sometimes saw people flicker past (some stayed too long, looking). She never looked up there, it was just small glimpses that she saw when her eyes strayed from the lines that stitched together the interworking's of the room.

He probably would have grown bored here if he was in her position. She doubts that he would have ever gotten himself to that place. He did pretend to be dead for three people, so she couldn't be sure completely. She breathed in deeply as she tried to stop thinking about him. He wasn't supposed to come look for her. She hadn't counted on any of that.

Now she was back to that place where she had been in the beginning. The days felt longer with her mind working too hard to keep her immersed in thoughts of before this happened and how a simple decline in someone else brought forth her own undoing.

Another deep breathe as her eyes closed and she leaned forward – just a fraction and then back again. She leant back and forth a few times as she focused on the act of breathing. Not thinking. _Don't think. Don't allow it to take you back. _She repeated it until it sounded like mere mumblings. _She wasn't crazy. She wasn't crazy. _This became the new thing.

She could scream. No one would really think much of it. She had been completely silent since the fallout of Sherlock Holmes actually trying to do something that he may have thought was useful. It wasn't that either. It made her tip back into a place where she herself didn't wish to know was real for her. That was what hindered her the most as she rocked herself. She would tip over onto her face if she wasn't careful.

She was in a room that had support, this only helped her from really hurting herself. She never planned to do that. She never planned to do much of anything beyond be there. Being there may have made her a bit more aware of everything.

Oh yes, she was most certainly falling again. Being aware of her lack thereof stability and grasp on reality was her biggest _issue_. Once she latched onto the one idea or thought it would send her into the true depths of the spiral. The only way was down.

Until it wasn't. There was something keeping her from actually just going with that. There was a memory of her and him. It wasn't exactly anything you may think. There was no undying proclamations of love or anything close to that. There was a simple gesture and one act of humanity from the man himself. Then the quiet came again.

She could remember it clearly.

_Molly was standing in front of him with a small bag that had everything he needed in there. He probably wouldn't take it. He wouldn't want to take things with him. Especially if it had a sentimental reason attached to it. _

_They were standing in front of a railroad track. He would be running a bit past it and going into a different part of the country. He had been quiet about where and that was something she expected when it came to him. She had been sure he would have just left without saying a word to her. Perhaps, that would have been easier for him. _

_She was always rather obvious about things though, wasn't she? She was always there trying to get him to do something (or be someone he wasn't). She didn't think he knew that she never wanted him to be anyone else besides himself. That would be a fool's wish. You didn't want to change anything in a person if you truly meant to care for them, unchained. _

_Here they were. He had told her that this might be the last time they saw each other for a time. Even then he might not tell her that he was coming back. They couldn't communicate. He did wish for her to look after everyone in his absence. She had seen the way he looked after his visit to the graveyard to see the others. It wasn't something she could ever erase from her mind. He was just there looking haggard and defeated at the notion of not being able to jump out and say, "It was all a trick. I am still among you."_

_He wouldn't say it exactly that way but it would be about that much in detail. _

_She gave him a smile, it was barely present as she passed off the dark bag that was more of a knapsack than a shoulder bag. He could keep it or he could do away with it. She didn't know which one would make her more comforted. He accepted it with no words, just slung it over her his broad shoulders and onto his back. _

_He hadn't taken his eyes off of her the entire exchange. She tried to avoid him looking directly at her eyes. It would give her away. She just nodded after giving him what she had got together for him. It wasn't much really. A few scrapes of medical materials that he might need and a few small things to eat if he got hungry. He told her once that he didn't eat while he was working but this might take years to finish. He had to have sustenance. She gave him what little she thought he would consume. _

_She had went to turn as she didn't want to say goodbye to him. Leaving him would be easier than watching him do the same, he caught her by the waist stilling her as he came in just enough distance to say what he wanted. Hand still tucked around her as he came round and stared down at her. She was frozen with good cause to for she had never seen this look in his eye before. _

_He looked different, almost vulnerable as he spoken just a few words. They would stay with her during the hard months though. "Thank you, Molly. I would have actually died if you hadn't done what you did." There was a moment where it looked like he was going to let her go and go his ways but then he leaned down, letting go of his hold on her waist and pressed his mouth against her head. Then he was gone. _

_By the time she had turned around to say anything, because she had finally had the courage to do that he had vanished. _

"What scares you the most? Knowing that you're still breathing and alive or that no one sees how much it's hurting you?"

She isn't paying attention to what's going on. A day or maybe two has passed already since she thought of that day when she said without really saying goodbye to Sherlock. The question has been rephrased a thousand different ways before. Each time there seems to be a bit of reluctance to ask it.

The woman (_"Helen Hunt"_ as it says on her name tag) is sitting there with a small memo pad in her lap and a pencil behind her ear. Molly has long sense ignored the fact that maybe she should have just brought an actual notepad. Though she wasn't going to tell her anything it was apparent that she needed to write things down. Didn't they always?

She goes back to thinking that if this woman probably wouldn't have asked if she didn't want to know. Though, she is certain that that's not entirely true. She doesn't necessarily need to know the answer but it probably would have helped her sooner. If that's what this is supposed to be…._help._

It doesn't really mean much to her. Answering it would only release another question into the quiet. Another painful truth that needs to be confirmed for the sake of a sanity that has long been lost.

That is the one truth that if she wanted to tell anything, she would say it.

She blinks at the woman who like the man who she hadn't seen in six maybe seven days is clothed like they actually belonged here. They didn't belong here. She did, because she was really messed up (she was admitting it to herself at least, now) and she needed the isolation. It was comforting…it did help keep her from doing another dangerous thing. Just as long she was there, she was safe.

"_Ellis Merren & Tessa Lewis_." Molly heard her say instead of sighing and leaving her there. She looked up at the woman for the first time since she entered and there was a very pained look across her face. "Are you going to talk about them, Doctor Hooper? Or Sherlock Holmes…would you like to talk about him? I'm always informed if you have anyone inquiring about you. I was the one who went ahead and admitted in to see you. Anyone who wants to has to go through me, you know? I may be just a psychologist – your therapist but I do know despite the lack of words during our meetings that you have a trigger. Mentioning the two you harmed and the one who hurt you seem to be the only way that I'll ever get you to even acknowledge that you are here for a reason. You may not want to discuss it, ever but you can't just sit here wallowing and trying to forget."

She took a deep breath as she pushed herself to her feet in a hurry and just stared down at the woman. If she was annoyed by her presence before, it was easy to hate her now. She didn't know shit. There were facts, of course but it didn't mean that what happened was her trigger. She put herself in her so she wouldn't cause much harm to others let alone herself.

Ellis Merren was a lab tech who was prying a bit too much into the history of what happened to Sherlock Holmes and what her affiliation was. Molly had gotten a bit fed up with it, and that was that. Tessa Lewis happened to also be in the morgue at the same time as Ellis was talking to Molly. She was the survivor. That was all of the facts, except it wasn't.

Those were just the tidbits that you could read in the file. They asked for statements and that was what you would find, Molly knew this. This information had been shared with her during two other occasions. One before she was locked away and the other during one of their first sessions. The first was with a detective who wasn't Lestrade (thankfully); D.I. Willington. He was brief and to the point and that had been all she had needed at that point. She told what she needed to tell then she asked to be placed in the psych ward. There were more questions to be answered as they admitted her in.

_Can you be trusted around sharp objects?_

Before today, yes.

_Do you want to be around people?_

It would be wrong to put me in an atmosphere where I was around someone, right now. I did just kill someone and physically harm another innocent bystander.

_Are you comfortable with medication?_

As long as it is safe.

_Are you experiencing grief over a person that was close to you and died recently?_

… (There was never a response for that)

_Do you want to talk about it with someone?_

… (Nothing…again.)

As they strapped her in the strait jacket they explained that once it was fastened there would be two men who would escort her to her new home for a few months; #705. At a later time she would begin to get visits from psychoanalysts and therapist that would try to help ease her into a more stable frame of mind and eventually she would be let go. Considering she hadn't been forced into it, though killing someone would warrant her a need to be forced to do it, she merely nodded at all of it before settling into her space.

"I won't answer anything you ask me. Not because I don't need or want to but because you piss me off. You come in ask me the same question every time. No, "how are you today, Molly?" but "are you scared of being here? Do you feel that people don't care about you?" If I were you, _Doctor_ I would most certainly ask one of the following…if you did I would think about giving you an answer. No promise. "_Do you feel that lashing out at the lab tech would do anything to get him from pestering you over and over about Sherlock Holmes – a man who is presumably dead? Do you know that he has resurfaced…wait no, you don't know that because you've been locked in for a year…strike that one off the list…" _Molly stopped for a moment, biting her lip as she thought more about this. "_Why won't you try to get out of here? Does it make you feel good to be stuck in here day in and day out? What will you do if/when you do get released? Why would Sherlock Holmes care to visit you for however many days he's been coming? Why did you yell at him?"_

"This is your way of venting, Molly. I understand. At least you're talking now. This is good."

Molly just stood there glaring at her. What the hell did she mean? What the hell was good about her just shouting questions at the top of her lungs at a woman she didn't even know?

"Is that what goes through your mind? A lot of questions that you may or may not have the answer to. Things that make you nervous. Or are there specific memories and a thought process that makes you feel like you're drowning? A lot of people describe it like that."

"No!" Molly shouted as she turned her back on the woman. She edged herself in front of a wall and let gravity do the rest, on the ground with her eyes closed willing the woman to leave her alone. She should have never opened her damn mouth. The quiet was so much better.

That 'no' basically was her identifier to the fact she didn't want to talk anymore. She hadn't wanted to talk in the first place it had just happened. She had just been tired of all of it being trapped inside her. She may have not said anything that the lady wanted to hear but she had said enough. Now she was going to shut everything out because she didn't want this.

She need this. This wasn't helping. It was bothering her.

Just like his absence sort of bothered her now.

It was what she expected though. She had gotten him practically dragged from this place by those strong men in white.

"_He's not going to come back, Molly. I've revoked his admittance after the new incident. I shouldn't have let him in the first place. That brother of his is very (powerful – Molly knows) aggravating. You think people don't care but I think in his weird way he did. He would just sit there staring at you for hours waiting for something to happen. You haven't budge much for anyone. Why would his appearance change anything? He's just a man. He's ordinary."_

Molly whispered it again much later after the lady was long gone. "No." This time it was subjected at her own thought. He was not just any man, he is brilliant and beautiful. He was crazy and moronic at the same time. He had depth. He knew that if he quit that nothing good would come of it. So, he pressed on and that is why she said no. No, she did needed someone. She needed Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock Holmes was the only one who could truly understand the pain of keeping your pain inside. She saw it in him more times in the years that she had come to know him than any one person she had ever met. That is why they are the same, now. He can see her for exactly what she is.

He has to come back.

She needs him.

There was a time before when she had accepted the fact that she may possibly have gone completely mad. Saying that to Sherlock hadn't been just a way to grab his attention. It was what she thought he was thinking at the moment as he was struggling against the two men who had him in a pretty tight hold. Many months before that Molly had for what it's worth been in a state of delusional. Where some people would hear voices and try to rationalize the importance of that or had dreams that really were just inner fears and wishes from the subconscious telling you that what you really wanted was somehow possible.

She dealt in a very different way. There were always three people sitting near here for the first few months. Three people that she had known before locking herself away. Some were closer to her than others but this was her way of coping with the fact that she had really fallen off the wagon at that point. She would sit there thinking of the way it went down and then they were suddenly sitting there in front of her, very lifelike and speaking in the tongues she was used to them talking in.

Sherlock Holmes, John Watson and her own mother. The latter really was just there for reasons she still didn't understand. Her mother was someone she had long sense stopped having civilized conversations with. None of it was supposed to make sense. They were just there feeding her things that may help.

Sherlock unleashed the statistic of how likely it was for a woman to lash out violently in the face of pressures that she isn't used to. John would tell Sherlock to shut the hell up and tell Molly that she was going to be fine. Everyone went through a rough patch, she would come out of it one day. She had helped him, he could help her too.

It was all too real for her to be sitting there seemingly looking at nothing when these delusions of people she needed or wanted to talk to.

Her mother may have been the one she may have not wanted to hear from the most. It always started with disappointed look in her eyes and then she would start with a 'tsk' and then she would say something extremely negative about how none of this would happen if she wouldn't have moved out to London and accepted the job at Bart's. She would have never met Sherlock Holmes. He had to be the one behind her fall. He had to, he messed up everything. He was a cruel man.

This would in turn result in a bit of a power struggle between the trio of figures that really weren't there.

One day she had shut it completely out and she didn't see them anymore. She began to hide inside the recesses of her mind and then the nightmares started. She would always wake up to the orderly holding her down as they injected her with a dose of chemicals that were supposed to ease her pain, or shoving a pill down her throat.

She had just sort of relied on that comfort as she resorted the balance inside her head. She wasn't better, she was just there again – idle. Sometimes shifting from thinking to simply being there. Stagnant was a word that the psychoanalysts would mutter as they came and observed her carefully. She listened to the few words that she let herself latch onto.

She wasn't really able and alive, she was just sitting and wallowing and sometimes just _stagnant. _

They would bring her small things to eat. Nothing that required a knife or fork. A spoon was acceptable, however. The fact that she was bound didn't really help her ability to eat any of that on her own. She had sent many glares to the orderlies as they set things down like Jell-O or mashed potatoes and there was always that spoon. She wouldn't eat it. She'd just leave it there and curl inside one of the corners and escape from their moronic behavior and go to sleep.

Sleep was sometimes a fortune. Sometimes it wouldn't cause her to wish she had something to throw at the very annoying plush walls.

There were also the nights (she had come to tell by how much light reflected into that small window by the door) where she refused to sleep. She'd stay awake, she'd ignore the way the drugs were trying to get her to slip into unconsciousness instead she would be thinking. Thinking helped erase those toxins for a good few hours before it all became too much and she clambered into an odd position and was rid of the space again. This didn't always work, sometimes she just gave up and let it take her down.

Another four days had passed and Molly was certain of a few things. The most important was that her mother's words held some truth to it. She didn't like admitting that. Her mother never understood half of the things that Molly rationalized, especially in the years that she had been in London. She had been more concerned about Molly finding a husband and having children like all of her friends' daughters. Molly had worried about that once. That felt entirely too far out of her reach now however.

No one would ever want to love someone who was so troubled. Yes, that's the new word she was using this day for her lack of stability. She was merely troubled about several things.

It must have been about an hour or two since she had seen anyone come near the window and peer in it. She had moved her position so that she could see that clearly. It was hard to explain the feeling that she got every time to only be disappointed as it wasn't who she wanted. She did want someone. She realized a bit later that her hope was returning to her at an agonizing pace.

Her therapist may have been right. He wasn't coming back for her. She wasn't even sure why he had been there in the first place. Was it to watch her fall? Maybe to see if she would react to him in any way? Sometimes she thought it was the latter but more of her conscious got her thinking it was the former. He had never wanted much from her besides access. What could he actually get from her now? She was trapped inside a space with her hands bound, what could she do for him?

Absolutely nothing.

She was _**nothing**_.

Nothing worth seeing.

_Nothing._

_Nothing._

_Nothing._

_Nothing._

This became the new cycle in her head. There weren't any more questions it was just a constant word being uttered in different ways and voices. None of it was real but she believed it, now.

That pain from before was prickling at her heart and she fought back the heaviness that was building behind her eyes and her head. Oh, her head hurt. It hurt more than ever before. She wanted to claw at it and weep but she was incapable of that.

The weeping would be much easier but she was trying to hold it back. This was hard. Crying was the easiest thing one could do under the influence of thoughts and feelings. You held onto the hope that in a few minutes, a few hours, or a few days that everything would be okay. No, you weren't okay but it had to get better. It had.

Sometimes holding to that hope didn't work in your best interest. Sometimes you just had to forget about that and immerse yourself in all of the pain. Sometimes the pain was better. The back and forth of wanting to be better and wanting it to just stop then to go back to the pain within a second was something that felt entirely unbearable.

She was entering the danger zone and she knew it. It felt pleasing in a completely wrong way to be almost there. This was where the agony got the best of her and she couldn't focus on the possibility of the good that might be right at the corner of the abyss. This was what it felt like to feel completely out of sight and out of mind.

It felt like burning. Like your whole being was engulfed by the flames of each silly truth that you continued to try to hide for when it's just you and you alone. This was real. This was real and she was about to hit the bottom of her capacity of gripping for the happiness. It was too far away.

The door opened then.

There was a man standing there with a small cup. She was currently blinded by the burning and so she couldn't tell that if this man held her relief or a curse. She had been vigilant about knowing every single orderly who came across her path to give her things. If she looked close enough she would be able to decipher the truth.

He had crouched down in front of her and held the cup out to her. None of them ever did that. She blinked at the burning and slowly began to focus on this man. She was almost to the clear when took hold of her jaw. She stilled and it wasn't from the fact that no one had ever done that before in this room. It was the state of his hands. They felt grimy and dirty. All orderlies always had clean hands. Then there was the state of his hair as she really concentrated on the taste at hand. He was trying to pry her mouth open. He was not Kathy, Leslie, Paul or Angela…this man had messy hair. All of them were clean and cut, even with the white scrubs on. He was not familiar and that was what caused her mind start to kick in overdrive.

What did she know about self-defense? What could she do from this position? What would help? What could keep her alive?

She bit down on the slimy hand that had tried to shove the pill in her mouth. She was trembling. She could feel it even as he made a grab at her feet. She was kicking him. She was reacting and that was good. She tried to scream, to yell. She need to grab the attention to any of the guards that were supposed to be stationed outside her door. Where were they?

Through all of this she was trying not to break down. She was realizing something. Something so vitally important that it made her want to sob, voluntarily. She didn't want to leave this world. She didn't want to be alone and she sure as hell didn't want to be in this room anymore. It was starting to suffocate her.

She continued to try to struggle against him. She was breathing. That was a good sign she felt as he made a grab for her throat. It was the only part of her upper body that could be caught in a hold. She gasped and was beginning to shake as her hands tried to move. She couldn't move them, she knew that. She was reacting. This was supposed to be good.

God, she couldn't fight back. He was so heavy.

The pill plopped down her throat and she tried to focus on the act of not swallowing it. She also had to focus on breathing. She needed to continue breathing to continue. She wanted to continue. There was a flash of cold as he poured water that she didn't even see he had on him down her throat. She choked and coughed as he watched her with this smile on his face. It was very sinister. It was deceitful. She tried to breathe as he let her go.

He just retreated and left her there.

She pushed herself up as she taught herself long ago. She ignored the heaviness that was starting to gather behind her eyes and she pushed her legs forward towards the door, she ran straight to it planning to hit it as hard as she could. She ran back to the other side of the room and did it again. Yelling for someone to help her. They had to help her. She was not okay. She was not going to die here. She couldn't.

She needed someone. She needed anyone.

She focused on the running and breathing. Her heart raging against her rib cage as she continued to do that. She could feel the droplets fall and she didn't care much for the fact that people would be able to see.

She had been hitting the door for a good three minutes when it happened. It swung open and two of the orderlies that she knew; Paul & Leslie were standing in front of her. They pushed her back even as she yelled about the man. They said she was delirious. She shook her head as they tried to make a grab at her shoulders, pinning her down. "No, you're wrong!" She cried. "He was here." He was she knew it. "He shoved a pill down my throat. He tried to kill me. His hand was around my throat. You have to believe me." She whimpered as they shared a look while still holding her down gently now.

"It's alright, Molly. You're going to be okay very soon." Started Paul. She knew what would fall out of Leslie's mouth soon. It was the same old song she had heard every time before when she was having a fit. "_You'll be able to forget about all of the things you think happened. You'll forget and that is good. Breathe. Just breathe and it'll be okay." _She said this and Molly cringed for the first time as she felt the plunge of the needle enter her veins.

"No." She replied as her eyes were beginning to shut. They were still there. They were real just as she knew that man was. She might not wake up, she knew that. "You're wrong Leslie…I know what…I saw. I'm not going to…okay."

Her eyes shut. The two orderlies waited a moment, Leslie was the first to do anything. She just reached out and smoothed out Molly's hair as Paul checked for her pulse. It was going back to a steady rhythm. That was good. They smiled before they exited the room.

Twenty five minutes later there was a lot of yelling from outside the door to #705. There was an outraged man in a billowing coat and a shorter man in a jumper. The former was trying to get them to let him inside the room. "She was going to die." He told them, seriously. They told him he needed to calm down, she was just sleeping. "No, she was telling the truth you imbeciles."

"How would you know that?" Paul asked first.

"I've been watching."

"What?" They both asked.

"Your cameras aren't very protected. Any one person could hack into the feed if they really wanted to. Let me in. I need to get her into the ER."

"Sir." Leslie started.

"Excuse me, Leslie that is your name correct." Another more calm voice said a few feet from behind the duo of orderlies. They all turned to look. "I'll need to open that door. It is quite important that we get Doctor Hooper to safe health and mind. She'll be taken care of. My name is Mycroft Holmes and I too have been keeping an eye on Doctor Hooper. There was a man in that room." He turned his gaze to his brother at that moment. "Brother, apologizes for my tardiness. I was in a very important meeting. I browsed the recording on my way." He gave him a slight smile before turning back to the two workers who seemed to still. "The door." He inclined his head hoping that that was enough of an inclination for the others to realize that he was waiting for them to do as he said.

Paul was the first to break contact with the others and enter in the room followed by the two Holmes brothers and Doctor Watson. Mycroft stationed himself outside the door as a form of barrier between any others that my attempt to breach it.

Molly head hurt, that was the first thing that crossed her mind as she awakened. She kept her eyes closed for fear of where she could be. It helped her focus on the fact that she was breathing and alive. There was something around her face, she could feel that. She call also feel a sudden warmness over her hand.

Her hand…yes, she could move that she realized. She didn't move any part of her body. She wasn't sure what she was dealing with. Though she felt a bit relieved to know that she didn't die. She was breathing. She was alive. She continued to think on that as she felt a few finger tips graze her wrist. It was a full on touch but it was more than anything she could ever imagine being real.

She decided she should probably open her eyes now. Her head was turned to the side. The side, luckily that her warmth was coming from. She saw the hand before even having the courage to look up at the person it was connected to. She knew who it was. She knew him almost more clearly than she knew her own self.

Did he save her?

She decided to not speak as she wrapped a few fingers around his hand which went back to hovering over her own hand. It was almost as if he was considering holding it. He didn't do that, though. He didn't do anything for a moment. His eyes slowly went up to meet hers.

Then his mouth open and he started to talk and begin to pull away. "I can go get…"

She stopped him with one word. "_Stay._"

Her voice sounded so far away from her own ears. She wasn't sure if she had even said it for a moment but then there was another voice talking. Someone who was not her nor Sherlock Holmes.

"Oh, I'm sure he wouldn't want to leave your side. _Doctor_."

Molly was careful as she let her eyes roam the rest of the room to find that voice. It was a woman but not familiar in the slightest. Her eyes must of widened as her eyes laid on a woman who more beautiful than anyone she had ever seen before. However, she had seen her before. Her face had been a bit smashed up last time though, if she could remember correctly. _Irene Alder_ was standing in her hospital room.

That probably should have been enough to make her want to close her eyes and go back to sleep. She had to have been for a good few days. It wasn't. The feeling of Sherlock Holmes' hand closing around her much smaller hand which she realized was chained to the railing of the bed. She focused back on him and watched as he sat stock still in a chair at her bed side continuing to grasp at her hand.

There was something he was trying to ask with his eyes, she couldn't exactly read it well. Not with another prying eye in her vicinity but she could only think of one thing to say as she took in a deep breath and exhaled.

"_Okay."_

That was what she was, and that made her…_happy_ for what it was worth.


End file.
